Fearful Symmetry
by Georgasaurus
Summary: After a fateful encounter with one of the infamous masks of NYC, an unemployed reporter delves into the criminal underworld, determined to find out more about the vigilante. But will her mission lead her to her goal, or to something much darker?
1. Prologue

**August 3****rd**** 1977**

You know you're stuck in a rut when you're jobless, borderline homeless, and the only man you can get is from one of them 'date me, I'm desperate' ads in the New Frontiersman. I'm waiting for him to pick me up now.

Those. _Those_, not 'them.' Christ, you'd think a girl who spent nearly four years in college studying English would at least get her damn words right, even if everything else is screwed up. Old habits die hard, I guess, and it's not like anyone is going to read this shit. Or maybe they will, when they find me dead here because I ran out of money to buy food. As for the rent...well, let's just say the landlady is 'nice.' Far too nice. She's young, pretty, and more successful than me, that's for sure. Pity I don't agree with her methods.

This apartment is the cheapest place in town, and it's women only. _Great_, I'd thought, snapping up the room straight away. Turns out there's more to this hole than what meets the eye. Every night, I hear it – frantic squawks and deep grunts from nearly all the rooms, for hours on end. The proprietor, Gracie Vega, isn't a slut; oh, no, she's much worse than that. Gracie Vega runs her flats as a whorehouse, using her tenants as her employees. Work for her and you don't pay any rent. Rooms are clean and pretty well furnished, too. The better you are at sleeping with pigs, the better a room you get. Some even receive a cut of the money Gracie makes. She's said nothing to me yet, but I knows she's waiting for the right moment to strike. She knows I'm struggling. When I told her for the second month I couldn't pay the rent, I was expecting a frown or some shouting. What I wasn't expecting was a sweet smile and an air of understanding.

"Don't you worry, Doll," she'd said in her soft, Southern accent, patting me sympathetically on the arm, "Don't you worry your pretty lil' face. I know times are tough, so you just pay me what you can, when you can."

Later, when I'd returned to my room, confused, I'd found a twenty dollar bill stuffed in my pocket with a note:

"_**Treat yourself, Doll. No need to pay back. You need a good meal. This one's on me.**_

_**Gracie xxx"**_

"_This one's on me,"_ I thought, staring at Gracie's elaborate, looped handwriting. Shamefully, though, I didn't spend it as Gracie intended. I stashed it in a box under the floorboards for safekeeping.

I really need a job.

Oh, believe me I've tried. I've sent article after article to the New Frontiersman, the Nova Express, and the New York Gazette, but no one cares. Everyone's all for these damned masked vigilantes, what with the police strike that's been going on. They brought out the Keene Act today, stopping the vigilantes for good. Instant retirement for the masks. There's one guy who's been in the headlines a lot lately, a name on everyone's lips. Rawshack, I think it's spelt. Rawshak? Rorshac? It's a weird spelling, anyway. The asshole's a murderer, not a hero. Kills people who _he_ thinks are criminals. What if he gets it wrong, eh? What if he gets the wrong person and kills them? Bastard would have murdered an innocent.

It's hard to get a picture of him, actually, this Roarshak guy. They keep using the same ones over and over in the paper, according to some of my friends. I heard that once they even used a plastic figurine made by Veidt companies, a figurine that was never released to the public. Almost laughable, really. How hard can one man be to photograph? Not that I've ever seen him myself. I ignore all vigilante articles...I'm just bitter, I guess.

Now that I think about it, the owner of Veidt used to be a vigilante, too. He never killed anyone, though. Probably hated by a hell of a lot of criminals, but the ordinary people liked him, I think. Went under a long, complicated name. Wrote it, actually. He _was_ a hero. I _should_ remember his name.

Ozmandes...

Ozymadian?

_Ozymandias._ Yeah, that's it. Ozymandias. I just checked. He revealed his identity two years ago and began selling products in his image. Some might call that arrogant or pompous...or both. Not me. The man's made a fortune, and for that, I envy him.

Maybe I should consider Gracie's offer...if she does offer it, that is. I've not eaten in days, to save up for the rent, I wash sporadically, to lessen the water bill, and I walk everywhere because I can't afford the damn transport. My feet hurt, my shoes are worn through, I stink, and I look like a tramp. God knows why Gracie would want to hire me, though, even if I did clean myself up. I'm not a looker, by any means. My bob cut? I did it myself with some kitchen scissors, a few weeks back, and it's kinda lopsided. Watching the mahogany brown strands flutter to the floor like clumped, moldy confetti made me feel depressed. Short hair is easier to live with than long, though, and I kept reminding myself of that every time I felt low. Still do.

Most of the girls here are slender and delicate looking. I'm short and stocky, with muscular arms that make me look like a weight-lifting skeleton. Thinking about food gets me so...hungry. Egh.

Keep writing. Take my mind off it.

It's my dad's fault I'm built like a tank. After mom died in '63 from a drunk driver smashing into her car, my dad became so protective of me. She'd been pregnant, and at seventeen, I'd had enough with being an only child. But then she died.

So, like I said, dad became protective. Over-protective, perhaps. Alcohol was banned in the house, and he made me take part in his martial arts classes until 1967, when I left for university. Only for a short while, though. After a few months, I was back in the classes, juggling English essays with practicing my kicks, punches, and throws.

Waste of time, as far as I'm concerned. I'm a mediocre fighter at best, borderline terrible. I might be strong, but if anyone were to lunge for me, I'd just panic and freeze. That was proven back in '69 when a girl hit me in a bar over a spilt drink. I didn't retaliate; I was too scared. Instead, I just tried to get away, running and hiding behind some trashcans in the street like the coward I am.

Pathetic. Dad doubled my routine after that, but I think we both knew I'd always be a failure in his eyes.

"Rachie, babe," he'd said, putting his fingers under my chin and lifting up my swollen and bruised face, "you can't let nobody push you around! You gotta fight them sonsofbitches who take a pop at you!"

_Anybody, not nobody,_ I'd thought automatically to myself, _and those, not them._

I held my tongue, however, knowing how much I'd piss him off by caring more about his grammar than his little pep talk. What do you expect from an English student, though?

_Can, not do, can, not do..._

He's still alive somewhere. Moved to Maine last year into one of them two story houses in a quiet neighborhood. Hot in summer, snowy cold in winter.

God _damn _it! Those, not them! _Those not them, those not them, those not them…_

Even if I could afford to travel to another state and into my rich father's house, I wouldn't. Not yet. Not while I still have a roof over my head. Dad thought I left home too early – said I wouldn't last on my own. Said I'd come back to him eventually. Maybe I will…but not yet. I can still survive. Pride runs deep through my family, and I'm no exception. I'll keep my head held high with my bad haircut and my shitty apartment if it means I'm still my own person. Hell, I'll even go as far as prostitution if it keeps me going long enough to get a decent job.

The other tenants that work for Gracie took up new names for their 'careers.' Glittered themselves up for that less-than-glamorous job. I've noticed there is a lot of popularity with the 'C' names. I find it funny, perhaps bitterly so, that the only thing their 'clients' are after begins with a 'C', too…

Cookie May. Blonde, small, cute. Prefers pink over everything. Pink lipstick, pink eye shadow, pink blusher, pink clothes. Even pink underwear. Her tops are more than slightly revealing, and I have often caught sight of her pink thong when I pass her in the corridor and she is bending down to pick up her mail.

Candy Star. Red head, raunchy, curvy. She's not fat, but she not a bean pole, either. She has shape, and boy, does she know how to use it. Candy's less tacky than Cookie, and while Cookie has long, gleaming curls, Candy has a beautiful, sleek bob cut. Almost like mine, except it's even and it suits her. Her makeup is dark and mysterious, alluring and sinful. Plum colored lips, with bronze eyelids and thick eyeliner. Long lashes from mascara. Stokes at her cheeks from blusher. She is a vision.

And then there's Crystal. No surname. Just Crystal.

She doesn't _need_ a surname.

Tall, elegant, sophisticated. She's the woman a man dreams of but knows he could never have. Compared to Crystal, Cookie looks like a tramp, and Candy appears overdone, thick with slap. When I first moved here, Crystal was just coming out of her apartment. She lit a cigarette, locked her door, and then looked up as I approached. Crystal dragged on her smoke and then exhaled, smiling at me. I noticed there was lipstick on her cigarette.

"Hey there, honey," she said, her eyes flicking up and down, assessing me. I didn't know it then, but she was checking to see if I was a threat.

Me? Hah!

"New here?"

"Yeah," I replied, feeling slightly belittled from her presence. "Yeah, I liked the look of the place."

_Liked the look of the price, more like,_ I thought to myself. Crystal tilted her head as if she knew what I was thinking. Her next words confirmed that.

"Rooms aren't so bad – they're clean and there's no rats or roaches," --_There're, not there's..._, my brain automatically corrects—"and Gracie's fair with the rent, too. She allows as many slip-ups on payment as you want, so long as you can pay back eventually."

"Pay back how?"

"Oh, you know, just help her around here. Earn your _bed_."

Crystal grinned at me. I didn't like it, and rightly so. Later that night, I heard the men creep into the rooms like pedophiles, and I tried to block out the clashing melody of moans sounding through my walls.

Crystal, from what I have gathered, is head slut here. Unsurprising. She is beautiful. She looks like she belongs in a high-class company, running numbers, than a creaky, old bed with an unknown man heaving and panting over her.

The most noticeable thing about her is that she is pale. I'm not just talking about regular pale, like a businessman who hasn't left the office in months; I mean natural pale, ghost-white pale, snow pale, _crisp linen sheet_ pale. Her cheeks have the faintest rose blush, which I suspect as makeup, but the way she applies it is so…artful, that it looks like they have always been that way. Her hair is a stark contrast to her complexion – black as coal, and styled in a boyish pixie cut. It would make anyone else look masculine, but on her, it is…stunning.

When I think of Crystal, two things instantly come to mind. Firstly, her green eyes peering through her cloud of exhaled smoke at me, when we first met. They narrowed for a split second, but softened when she disregarded me as a threat to usurping her throne. Secondly, her shaped lips pulling back into that first smile, the lipstick a startling, vibrant red. If there's one thing I envy about her, more than anything else, it is the boldness of her style.

Cookie May is pink and cute. Candy is dark and raunchy. Crystal-no-surname-just-Crystal is sophisticated and sexy.

And then there's me.

Rachel Coates is brown and dull.

Brown. A word that describes my life. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown shoes, brown coat, brown, _stinking_ apartment, brown, _stinking_ life.

I need to get out of this. I need to get out of this flat, I need to get out of this street, I need to get out of this _city_.

God, I'm so desperate, I even went to the 'lonely losers' section of the New Frontiersman and dialed the number on the page to put my name down. The guy I chose is a middle aged, thirty-four (only four years older than me), not ugly, but not God's Gift, either. Carl Bretman. He's calling here to pick me up any minute now. Seems likes an average man, likes average things. Usually I hate average, but beggars can't be choosers.

That's all I am. A beggar. A roach. A rodent.

A rat scrounging to survive in downtown New York.

I hear my doorbell ringing.

It's time to go.

--

**August 4****th**** 1977**

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus Christ. God, help me. God, save me, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Black and white. Moving. Changing shape…but not mixing. No gray. Oh, God. I'm so scared.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Im going to die. Im going to die. Im going to die. im going to die. im going to die. im going to die im going to die im going to die im going to die im going to die

die

help me

--

**August 5****th**** 1977**

All the doors are barricaded. Windows are shut. Got a knife in my hand as I write. Dark shadows in the room. The only light comes from the crack under the front door. I can't write for long. Have to stay alert. But if he comes for me, he'll get me anyway.

Knife. Blood. Belt.

Jesus.

Oh, God, I hear him.

he's here

--

**August 6****th**** 1977**

False alarm. Turned out to be another tenant walking down the hallway to her room. However, I decided the pen scratching against the paper was too loud. Decided to stop. I haven't eaten since I…for three days. I haven't eaten for three days. I go to the toilet when necessary, and I filled several cups full of water, to prevent constant noise.

Can't risk noise.

Too noisy now.

I have to go.

--

**August 7****th**** 1977**

I finally went down for food today. Gracie looked surprised to see me. She said she'd been worried about me. I laughed in her face.

"Worried that I might be dead, or worried that someone else would take advantage of my absence and loot my room before you?"

I've not snapped at anyone like that for years. Gracie scowled and stubbed her cigarette into the wall, leaving a neat little scorch mark in the peeling paper. She hadn't been angry or indignant, though. She's just pissed because I am right.

I'm on edge. I know it. Everyone else knows it, too, but after what happened on…because of four days ago, it's no wonder.

Four days…has it really only been that long since?

The knife. The blood. The belt.

The mask.

I can't keep this in any longer. It's like a cancer in my body, threatening to kill me if I don't get it out now. I can't talk to anyone else, so this will have to do.

Oh, God….

The beginning. Start from the beginning. Look back at my last sane entry. The doorbell.

The doorbell.

Carl rang the doorbell to come and pick me up. He was fatter than the picture I'd received. Like I said, though, beggars can't be choosers.

_beggars, roaches, rats, and rodents. Human cockroaches, scuttling in the blood gutters_

My head…it hurts so bad,

_so much, not so bad_

and I can't think straight. I need a drink of water, but I have to carry on. I can't stop the flow of a river.

Dinner with Carl was bearable, but I knew instantly it was a mistake. There was little conversation, and I caught him staring at my chest on several occasions. He made me feel uneasy, and I just wanted the night to end so I could go home. It was a stupid idea. I think I'll forget about the New Frontiersman and try the Nova Express. Then again, the only paper to print any of my articles has been the New Frontiersman. Can't betray them like that.

When the meal ended, Carl offered to walk me home. I refused, but then he looked so disappointed that I reconsidered and agreed. My stupidity, it seems, knows no bounds.

We'd walked two streets when we saw a bunch of kids not far from us. They had knot hairstyles. They seemed to spook Carl, and he told me they were criminals, mugging every night for spare change and sex. It didn't occur to me to question how he knew this, only that his fear seemed genuine. I followed him down a back alley in silence, scared the gang would attack me. Carl stopped and I ran into him, startling myself. When he turned around and clamped his hands on my shoulders, I saw the look in his eyes…and I knew. My heart screamed with terror, but before I could utter a sound, he had swung me around, slamming me into the metal railing surrounding an old building, and then tugging at my coat. The buttons popped away to reveal my evening clothes, and for a moment, he was distracted.

I tried to lash out at him, but he was quick, catching my arm and bending it inwards, forcing my elbow into my own stomach. Winded, I doubled over and staggered, and he drew a knife from his pocket, pointing it at me while he undid his trousers. I glanced at the sliver of metal in Carl's hand, so close to my neck, and closed my eyes. Get it over with. Maybe I'd even live.

"Good girl," Carl chuckled in my ear, his stubble rubbing uncomfortably against my cheek. He was pleased by my resignation.

Carl fumbled with my clothes while I tried to cast my mind back to a happier memory, eyes still closed. I couldn't think of one, though. I couldn't think of a happier time in my life. Despair set in, and tears dripped to the ground. Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

It had to be my head playing tricks on me. Trying to protect me from the blow that was about to come…soften it, even. Then Carl jerked his head towards the direction of the noise. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

Hell stared back.

Black and white. Moving. Changing shape…but not mixing. No gray.

It was the most terrifying thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

I tore my gaze from the drifting blots of black and looked at the unholy entity in its entirety.

The figure was lean, but not tall. Hands in pockets, as if it was politely waiting for others to notice it. The bottom half of a purple pinstripe suit was visible underneath a grimy, brown coat, with a large patch of ancient, dried, splattered blood at the left breast down to the tie at the waist. Battered black shoes were on its feet, and on its head, a worn, brown trilby hat with a purple band around it. To me, these dirty garments seemed but barriers to stop the living, breathing, white creature that had engulfed this person's face from spreading to the outside world. The scarf at the stranger's neck, though, told me that the guards were failing. The white was gradually seeping down, infecting the rest of this soul, before spilling out onto the streets, contaminating all it touched.

The figure stepped forward, and I saw that it was not a demon, but a man. A man in a _mask_….

Carl let go of me instantly and backed away, eyeing the man with uncertainty and an edge of…fear. He raised his hands as if to defend himself, as if to surrender.

"I was jus' jokin'!" he stammered, stumbling over his own feet as he moved as far as he could from the faceless one. "I was jus' gonna scare her a lil' for rejectin' me. Aw, come on, man…"

The mask and its body began to walk towards Carl, hands deep in pockets, posture crooked and intimidating. Slow, deliberate steps, each one sending an echo through the silent alley. Carl backed up right against a nearby wall, trembling. The masked man stared at him, disregarding his pleas and instead…analyzing him?

"God damn it, man! Say somthin'! I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, I couldn't help myself.

_I haven't done anything wrong, not-_

"Hurm," the face said, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Harvey Charles Furniss. Wanted. Thirty-five. Put ad in paper under false name for new victims. Stupid. Charged in '68 for attempted rape. Two years in Sing-Sing. 1970, two months after released, three counts of rape. Case dropped. Lack of evidence. '72, girl missing. Found, raped and murdered…"

I stopped listening, terrified to hear anymore of those horrific acts. The man kept talking, though, listing dates of rape and murder, keeping his voice perfectly level and monotonous. Listening to the calmness in his tone over such things was more frightening than any crime Carl had committed. But he wasn't Carl, I realized. He was Harvey.

"…Two cases of rape in '74. Twin girls. Nine. _Children."_

The man paused after the emphasized word of 'children,' as if his silent disgust in this rapist and child murderer had rendered him speechless. He stared at the floor, his breathing heavy, seemingly deep in thought, and then looked up again, regaining his composure.

"'75, twenty year old girl molested. Too scared to speak. Doesn't press charges. '77…"

The mask glanced at me.

"You."

I said nothing, simply sliding to the ground in terror. Harvey, however, took this as his chance, and slashed at the man with the blank face. The mask, however, simply dodged around the knife with little effort, as if he had predicted his opponent's movements, and clamped down on Harvey's wrist, before driving his elbow into his victim's. The snapping sound of bone breaking was barely audible over Harvey's screams of agony, and he dropped the blade immediately. He fell to his knees, sobbing and clutching at his shattered arm, bones poking through the skin as blood poured down like crimson rain.

"W-who are you?" I stammered, gnawing at my knuckles. Mask looked over at me, and I saw the belt in his leather-gloved hands.

"Run."

_If you don't, you're next,_ I could hear him thinking. Quicker than thought, I scrambled to my feet and ran as fast as I could. My feet pounded against the slick, wet street as I fled, and I didn't stop until I'd reached my apartment. Before I was out of earshot, though, I heard the gasping cries of shock and horror in the distance. I heard the life being choked out of a rapist. I heard Harvey Charles Furniss being strangled to death.

Four nights ago, I heard a man being murdered.

I am a witness…but I don't know who the killer is. Maybe there's a reward if I shop him. Maybe-

Oh, God.

I've just seen the paper from three days ago. The day after…the day after Carl was murdered.

No, not Carl. Harvey…Harvey the serial rapist. Harvey the child killer.

Front headline from the old paper delivered to my door three days ago. A wanted rapist was found dead out police headquarters, the morning after the Keene act was passed. Pinned on his chest was a note – a note that simply read, 'Never!', and it was signed by the man who committed murder and saved my life.

It was signed by _Rorschach.

* * *

_

_Author's Notes: I decided to split the first chapter into a prologue and, um, a first chapter, because it was rather long.  
_


	2. Never Despair

**Never Despair**

_--_

_Tyger, Tyger,_

_Burning bright,_

--

**October 9****th**** 1977**

Thirty-one today. What have I done with my life? What have I done with it that's worth remembering? When I die, and I'm buried, cold, in the ground. I want people to notice. I want people to think, _'Hey, I remember her!'_

Like Rorschach.

Ever since August, I've been digging up information on him. It is difficult. Two months, and I know barely anything about him. What little I have learned is simply common knowledge in the underworld, but perhaps unsurprisingly, they know more than the cops ever could.

Apparently, Rorschach first hit the scene in 1964, although no one knows why. They don't care, either. They just want him dead. Took a great deal of convincing on my part to get anyone to open up to me. I spent a hell of a lot of time crafting a fake back story and name. Firstly, to gain their trust, and secondly, so if Rorschach ever heard what I was up to, it would be harder to find me. The bars know me as Ms. Jenny Ellen Jude, who lost her journalist job after her husband was apprehended by Rorschach. The news didn't want anything else to do with the wife of a criminal, so she reverted to her maiden name and set about looking for a good story. She wanted her job back, perhaps even a better job, and she wanted to ruin Rorschach the way he had ruined her and her husband. She saw all the reports on the vigilante and decided she was going to bring the murdering bastard down, by finding out all she could about him and then revealing him to the public.

I told the same story to every bar I went to, and at first, they laughed in my face and told me to get the hell out. A few nights later, a man called out to me in the street. Turns out criminals _do_ talk between themselves, and I'd become a hot subject in the back alleys. He beckoned me to follow him, reassuring me he wasn't going to hurt me, and against my better judgment, I did. Each time I'd visited the bars beforehand had been a risk in itself. I'd been careful not to be seen until I'd gotten inside, and when thrown out, I'd disappeared just as quickly. I could see Harvey Charles Furniss in every single one these people, all eager to kill me for no reason other than because they felt like it…and this time there would be no Rorschach to save me.

However, as good as his word, the man took me to the steps of 'Happy Harry's' – which I later learnt was called the 'Rum Runner' – and gestured for me to go in. The place was dim and murky when I stepped through the door; I could see eyes gleaming in the light from the entrance, all focused on me.

"Ms. Jude," a voice called to me from the back of the room. I narrowed my eyes, peering through the gloom, and then walked towards the man sat at his grimy table.

"Have a seat, my dear," he said, grinning and showing his yellowed teeth. Then he noticed others staring at us as I took my place at his table. "Quit starin' befo' I slit ya' throats, scum!"

The people hastily returned to their drinks, and I took the opportunity to start the recorder I'd concealed in my bag. I'd been carrying it around with me ever since I'd started visiting the bars; luckily, I'd had it with me before entering the Rum Runner, meaning I wouldn't have to stretch my terrible memory for the details.

Once the head honcho has yelled at the other patrons to mind their own damn beeswax, he turned to a nearby table and nodded to them. I hadn't noticed until then that they'd all been holding guns, and at their boss' signal, holstered them again. Realizing he was clearly a big name in this place, I shivered and stared at the bulge in their coats from their weapons. Ripper saw my reaction and chuckled.

"No worries, lady," he said. "They're only there to make sure no big shot punk takes a pop at my ass…or worse."

_Like Rorschach,_ I thought to myself. Didn't want to anger him.

"Now, to business." He looked serious. "Word's going around that you want some dirt on Rorschach, right?"

"At this moment in time, any information will be acceptable," I replied, lighting a cigarette and drawing on it. Thankfully, I didn't cough and choke on it. I'd been practicing by stealing some of Gracie's and Crystal's, because they gave a tougher, more business-like image. I could also probably offer one of my 'informants' one, if needs be, as a sign of trust. "Past activities of his, haunts, hunting grounds – anything. The more I know, the better a picture I can construct of him. I can also reveal hidden informants, too. Cigarette?"

The man coughed and shook his head. "Try'na quit."

_...Great._

I shrugged and carried on smoking the vile thing, though, as if it didn't concern me. Better to be consistent than to arouse suspicion.

"How about this, lady: you help us with some of our jobs, and we give you information? We could use a pretty face for the more…specialized jobs."

He reached out to touch my cheek, and I knocked his arm away. The cronies behind us all reached inside their jackets for their jackets, and the bar fell silent once again. My insides froze and my heart began beating frenziedly against my chest as I strolled along the edge of panic. Jenny Ellen Jude was a calm, strong reporter, who let no one push her around. I couldn't drop my disguise and ruin everything before it had even begun.

"If you think I'm going to damage my reputation further, you've got another thing coming. I'm a reporter, not a whore," I said coldly, narrowing my eyes. "And I know even that ugly sonovabitch, Rorschach, is probably better looking than me, so don't treat me like a dumb blonde. You're not the only lowlife looking to get the vigilante off the streets, so if I can't get what I want from you, I'll go elsewhere."

I stood up, glancing down at hum as if he were nothing more than a 'roach I'd just stood on.

"And if no one else will give me what I desire…well, then it looks like you're just going to put up with the mask, aren't you?"

I turned to leave, wondering what the hell I would do since I'd blown it, when the man began to laugh.

"Sid'down, Ms. Jude," he said, looking pleased. "I figured if you weren't who you said you were, you'd be more desperate for what I know."

_Christ,_ I'd thought. _I was considering his offer, too!_

I did as he said and took out a notebook, hoping I could remember all of my shorthand, and nodded to him. He began to speak.

"Name's Ricky." He offered me his hand. I shook it. "Ricky Goldberg – Ricky the Ripper. People jus' call me Ripper."

"Ripper?" I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the origins, but curiosity got the better of me. "Why Ripper?"

Ripper grinned and pulled out a rusty, serrated blade – like an elongated knife – from his belt and held the point to my throat. Flinching and slowly lowering my eyes down, I felt a shiver run down my spine at the sight of the blood – old and new alike – encrusted on the metal.

"'Cause I rip and tear through people who piss me off," he replied, making a sawing motion with the blade at my neck. Suddenly, he brought his fist onto the table, as if to prove a point when all the silent listening patrons began talking again, as he wordlessly demanded. Ripper paused, and then put the weapon away, before staring at me.

"What?" I asked, afraid he'd seen through my façade.

"You do realize," he said slowly, "that if Rorschach hears about this, he'll come after you?"

My mind sighed in relief.

"I am well aware of it."

"Then you must be…'well aware' that not all of us are honest folk down here."

Ripper shifted in his seat and took a sip of his drink. I mimicked him, lifting my own whiskey and taking a small mouthful, managing not to gag on the burning sensation from it. My dad stopped me from drinking after mom died, but I wanted to fit in with the environment. Like the cigarette, I'd been practicing.

Ripper leaned forward and sighed.

"Look, lady, here's what I'm try'na say: any small time crook in this city could and would blackmail you or sell you out to Rorschach for as little as a hundred bucks. Maybe even after a bit of mask torture, if the asshole suspected anything. You catchin' my drift?"

"Oh, I understand perfectly." I drained the remnants of my drink from its glass and set it down, feeling quite light-headed by this point. "But consider this: all those who talk to me want Rorschach gone. Small fry are gonna think twice before pissing off all the big boys, and they're going to want to think about putting me in danger when I hold such a connection with New York's top dogs.

"Sure, if Rorschach gets hold of me, a lot of important people go on his blacklist. However, said people will easily be able to find the squealer before Rorschach pays a visit and they will make him suffer. No street rat will risk his sorry ass no matter how much he's paid. And if no one says anything, Rorschach won't hear about it. If Rorschach doesn't hear about it, he can't torture no one"—_anyone, anyone, anyone—"_about it."

"Seems risky." Ripper seemed to be reconsidering, which wasn't good for me. "No one's gonna want to put their ass on the line, lady. Sure, your rat theory sounds good, but people are stupid and unpredictable. Be safer to wait for the mask to be taken out by one of us."

"Oh, maybe, but how long would you have to wait? I first heard about him in '75, though I'm sure he's been around longer. Two years, and despite all your guns and testosterone, he's still a thorn in your side, huh? How many more years will he interfere with your dealings and projects before he dies or is finally caught by the police?"

Ripper said nothing, so I took one last puff of my smoke and then stubbed it into the table.

"You know what I think? I think you…all of you…I think you're scared."

"Scared?" Ripper snorted. "Now wait jus' one second-"

"Shut up." To my surprise, he did. "Yeah, you're scared, and I know why. You're scared because he's one of you. He's one of your kind, and yet he exterminates you anyway. He plays by your rules, and because of that, you can't fight back. Cops are different; cops are easy; cops have their own set of code, so you can dodge around them. Cops play the game. Rorschach doesn't. He thinks like you, he fights like you, and he's better at your game than you, and so playing against him the only way you know how – his way – will never work."

Once again, the bar was quiet, but this time, Ripper didn't tell them where to go. He was listening intently to me. They all were.

I took a deep breath.

"What I'm offering you is a new set of rules for a completely different type of game – one Rorschach won't be familiar with. The Keene Act wounded the vigilantes, and although our mask is still standing, the injury has limited what he can do. He's wanted, and there will be many, not just you, and not just cops, who are after his blood. Politics and the media are different ways to fight, and perhaps more brutal than you could ever imagine."

I stood up, everyone staring at me, and fished out a scrap of paper and a pen from my bag and wrote on it, before tossing it to Ripper.

"Call me if you decide you wanna do this," I said, and with that, I walked out of the bar.

That happened in…July. July 27th, '77. The day after I discovered Rorschach had saved my ass a few nights earlier, I decided wanted to know more about him. I was…intrigued. I felt the burning desire to delve into the unknown and discover what lay behind the mask. What drove him into becoming a vigilante? Why are there no reports of serious offences against humans before '75, when he's been active since '64? The deeper go, the more questions I unearth. More questions…but few answers. At every turn there are three more paths I can go, spreading like the branches of a tree, each road more intricate and detailed than the last…and more loose ends on the other side.

No one will ever read this. It's just some dumb scrawling of an ugly, middle-aged woman, with no interesting life of her own, so she spends her time researching someone else's instead of getting a damn job.

I think Gracie's finally getting tired of the gaps between payments. I always give back what I owe, eventually; it just takes time to scrape together the money. Every three months I give Gracie the cash, and she accepts it with a grimace. She's asked me countless times since the New Year to join her whore brigade, and I've said no to every offer. Each morning, when I leave through the front entrance, she pops up by my side and asks.

Soon I'll snap. Soon I'll give in, lash out, or leave…but where would I go? The last two options will have me out on the street, because there's no way in hell I'm going to live with my father. I'm determined to prove him wrong.

Although I originally intended to keep this information to myself, the idea of 'cashing in' what I know is becoming more and more appealing each day. Rorschach may have save my life, but I can't live it, either. I need to eat…and I really need a cigarette. When I can afford it, I go out and buy a couple of smokes. Occasionally, Crystal takes pity on me when she sees me craving and gives me a couple of cigarettes.

If I'm going to survive, I need more dirt to deal with. As I said earlier, Rorschach became active in '64, but he didn't cause any real trouble until '65, when he teamed up with another masked idiot called 'Nite Owl.' Ripper contacted me a few nights ago since I gave him my number, and after exchanging brief formalities, told me all about the fall of a criminal called 'Big Figure', who also happened to be Ripper's former boss. After Mr. Figure was arrested, Ripper took over the gang. No honor amongst thieves, as Ripper doesn't care his was put in the slammer; he's glad for it.

Quite a few crooks were apprehended by Rorschach in the early years, the 60s. Big Figure in '65; Underboss in '66; the King of Skin in '71, and Jimmy the Gimmick in '74. Countless men were put in jail thanks to the mask, but the last big arrest was in 1974. After that, people died instead. In 1975, Rorschach murdered a man called Gerald Anthony Grice, known as 'Gricey' to his friends. Grice's charred remains were found handcuffed to a furnace of some sorts, with a saw half embedded in the left arm. The mask himself was seen lurking near the building Grice burnt to death in, watching the old dress makers being consumed by fire before finally leaving.

At the time, I couldn't believe a man who saved my life would commit such cruel and horrific acts against another human being. I thought the vigilante was a psychopath…and maybe he is. Maybe he really is insane, but he's not the kind of crazy I thought he was.

I asked around about Grice, and eventually unearthed an old accomplice of his, Harry Lloyd. Harry seemed petrified of me, insisting it had all been 'Gricey's idea', and promising he had backed out of it once it had gotten too heavy. When I told him I didn't understand, he fell silent, looking as if he'd made a huge mistake. Quickly, I pushed him for the details, and at first he refused. I asked him what he was scared of, praying my tape recorder was still working.

"I don't want Rorschach to find me. I don't want him to know I was involved," was the answer I got. After assuring him I was out to bring the vigilante down, he opened up to me.

God, I wish he hadn't.

A little girl called Blaire Roche was kidnapped in 1975 by Harry and Grice. I remember reading about it in the paper, following the case every day. A couple of bones were found in an old, burnt down dressmakers, along with the body of a man. Everyone assumed the dead man to be another victim, not the killer…. The case was dropped and remained unsolved to this very day. Or it was. I'm tempted to go to the police, but not only would my cover be blown, I don't have any evidence.

Harry explained that once Grice and him realized that Blaire's family were dirt poor, Harry had wanted to let the little girl free, but Grice had kept her to himself. Harry refused to take part in the scheme anymore, and argued with Grice, before leaving. Grice ended up dead, and Harry has been hiding ever since, fearing he was next.

I nodded to Harry and then left the diner, too stunned to speak. Walking home in a muted daze, thoughts of little girls being butchered and corpses burning whirled around my head. Two questions screamed at me, demanding I face them. The first one was 'does Rorschach deal with this kind of shit every night?' The second question was slightly more complex:

How can he bear to live, knowing of, no, _experiencing,_ such horrific acts?

Depression washed over me as I carried on down the damp, stinking streets, trying to answer these questions. Regardless of what reply I gave to the first, the second was impossible to give a satisfactory answer to. I just couldn't understand how Rorschach hadn't surrendered to the sea of despair that was New York City's underworld. I know have to be careful now, venturing out into this little mission of mine. Did Rorschach start out like me? Did he have a goal, but towards the end, was warped and twisted by it all? That won't happen to me. I won't let it happen to me. I'm not going to actively stop it. I'm sure as hell not going to get fully involved. I just ask questions and occasionally tell them some things I found out...I'll be safe.

When I finally reached my apartment, I dumped my bag on the floor, and then shuffled to my bed, falling onto it with my coat still on. I inhaled the musty smell of the pillow, and then sobbed my heart out until the early hours of the morning, before falling into an uneasy sleep. Dreams of rape, murder, and blood plagued me, with every person holding the face of Harvey Charles Furniss, and every victim sharing my own features. My screaming, fearful expression was passed around like a ghoulish mask. It's a nightmare I still have occasionally. The next morning, I considered stopping my little project for good…despairing…surrendering…before it became too deep for me. Something inside of me resisted, though. It fought back against my negativity, and here I am, still building up a profile for my subject mask. Looking back on what I'd written earlier, I feel like such a bitch. Cash in Rorschach? If I had done that, I would have no shame.

Still, I need a story. To get information, I've been helping out my contacts in my own way. I get dirt for Ripper on other crooks, and occasionally, cops who are on the corrupt side. With my information, they've been booming in business, but I make sure they don't tell me what they're up to. I'd rather not know. What I learn is worth it, though; Rorschach is quite a small guy – 5'6", to be precise, just three inches more than me, and is white. I'm slowly building up an image of him.

I felt bad at first about trading information, helping Ripper and his gang, but it's for a good cause, and the more I reminded myself of that, the less guilty I became. I mean, what these guys do is going to happen anyway – I just sped up the progress. Plus, now I have evidence to give to Rorschach when I find him. It's karma, right? Everything evens out eventually. Except I'm starting to like Ripper. I've been in pretty close contact with him since we first met. He's not too bad a guy, really. He's just a person trying to survive in the world…like me.

Door's knocking, which is a first for me. I wonder who it could be?

--

**August 10****th**** 1978**

Just got back from the hospital. Christ, my face hurts.

I ache and sting all over, but if I have one thing to be thankful for, it's that Gracie broke the fingers on my right hand, not my left. I'm also glad I put my diary inside the hidden lining of my jacket, as a caution, before opening the door. Gracie was there, leaning against the frame, chewing gum. Crystal was stood not far behind, smartening up her already perfect nails with a nail file, and two other of Gracie's whores, new girls, on either side of the head slut.

I can't remember Gracie's exact words. I can't even recall my own. My head hurts too much. The whole event is a hazy blur, with moments of stabbing pain jumping out at random intervals. All I can think of is Gracie asking for rent. I must have said no, because I know I can't afford it, and because she then demanded I work for her. She didn't request it this time. She ordered me to do it. I told her where to go. She stared at me for a few seconds, and then said one word:

"Fine."

Gracie lunged for me, and while I'd steeled myself for it from the moment I'd refused, her sheer strength took me by surprise. She grabbed my hair in fistfuls, and then flung me out from my doorway into the corridor. I stumbled and tripped, falling headfirst into the wall. The impact knocked me senseless, and I lay on the floor, the side of my skull throbbing.

I guess they must have beat the hell out of me then. I don't really remember after that.

The next clear part was waking up in an alley, with them all stood around me. I assumed they took me out there, but I didn't have time to ponder it, because Gracie drove her heel into my right hand. She told me over my screams that I 'shouldn't have messed with her', and that everything in my apartment was now hers, to pay for owed rent. My coat was thrown onto my head, and I listened to them walking away, laughing and joking as if nothing had happened.

I don't know how long I let myself lie in the grime, but all I could think about was the blinding agony all over me. All my property, save my coat and my journal, belonged to Gracie. I thought of all my tapes, my recorder, my research…

I couldn't lose that. I knew I couldn't.

With great difficulty, I managed to somehow drag myself to my feet, and then staggered and stumbled away, clutching at my coat. As I walked down the street, I noticed the burning sensation in my side was increasing with every step, and so stopped to inspect it, swaying like a drunk. Turns out one of the attackers, most likely Crystal, had stabbed me in the side with a nail file and left it there. Too weak to pull it out, I carried on to my destination. Hospital, I knew I couldn't afford, and I'd dug up and dished out too much dirt on the cops to go to them. They could search my place and realize I'd cast a bad light on a hell of a lot of them. They could discover I'd been the one channeling material to the crooks for the past few months or so to blackmail many in the police force.

No, I couldn't go to either of those places, like a normal citizen. There was only one place I _could_ go.

My legs finally gave way as I entered the Rum Runner. Somehow, I managed to avoid pushing the nail file in deeper, which was a small blessing in itself. The regulars there recognized me straight away and helped me up, taking me into the back room. The last thing I remember was mumbling 'Ripper', before passing out.

White. When I woke up, there was lots of white. The brilliance made my eyes hurt, so I groaned and closed them again. This attracted the attention of a nearby nurse, who began to fuss over me. I tried to push her away, noting my hand was now splinted.

"Why am I here? I can't pay the bills."

The nurse simply smiled at my concerns and shook her head. A man in a suit, the woman explained, a Mr. Richard Goldberg, had brought her in, informing the hospital he would be paying all the expenses.

It took a moment for me to make the connection.

Richard Goldberg?

…Ripper?

The nurse made a call, and within half an hour, Ripper was by my bedside, looking rough, despite the upgrade in attire.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked before I could even open my mouth to greet him. "Was it Rorschach?"

I shook my head and he sighed with relief.

"Who did it, then?"

I paused, and then told him all about Gracie and her…tenants. He frowned and then chewed his lip. I noticed he had had his teeth whitened. Since I had answered his question, I asked him my own.

"When could you afford to look so suave, eh?"

"When you gave me information that put my gang back up with the big dogs," he replied with a sly grin. He proceeded to tell me all about his business – things he'd never mentioned over countless phone conversations. My sifting through and dealing of information had caused several gangs to be eradicated, some of the remnants joining Ripper's, and cops and enemies alike blackmailed to let Ripper carry out jobs without interference. In the last few months, the income had soared, making the gang more successful under Ripper's leadership than Big Figure's. Earned enough profit to smarten himself up and buy a modest penthouse. The gang itself had its own 'hideout' of sorts. A bar, once an old speakeasy, but converted when the prohibition ended. The secret rooms, switches, and tunnels remained, which made it ideal for a base.

"You are a valuable asset to my growing empire, Ms. Jude," Ripper said. "Thanks to you, I can now walk with the wealthy as 'Mr. Richard Goldberg', instead of 'Ripper the murderous thug.' I have to protect my most precious of profits. Once you can leave this place, you will be staying at my home until further notice."

I flushed with embarrassment, but Ripper carried on.

"If any other gang did this to you, they'd be taught that no one fucks around with me or my people…especially one as important as you. Why should a collection of whores be treated any differently?"

"They have my research," I mumbled, not liking what he was implying. "That's all I need. That's all I want. Please, don't do anything to them."

He told me if I let them walk all over me, others would do so, too. We'd 'discuss it when we went home', he'd said, as if I'd already lived in his place for a long time…as if I already belonged there.

That had been nearly a month ago. Doctor said I'd been lucky; my broken ribs had missed puncturing my lung, and that nail file hadn't skewered anything important. In total, I had three broken fingers, a badly bruised index finger (the thumb remained intact), two fractured ribs on the left side, and one on the lower right, a chip in the collar bone, and various cuts and bruises, as well as a concussion. My lip was pretty bust up, too, and I had a deep, but non-lethal wound just above my pelvis where the nail file had been. It had just come short of hitting my kidneys. It still hasn't quite sunk in that I could have died.

Death has always been a subject avoided in my life. After mom died, it became a taboo topic between dad and I…and then later on, between everyone else and myself. I hate hospitals. After sitting in one for over eight hours, at the tender age of seventeen, while my mom…

I despise hospitals.

Ripper visited every day, sometimes staying through the night, sleeping in the nearby armchair and then going home to shower and change the following morning. There was always an armed group with him. I think the staff were too afraid to complain.

By the end of the week, the look, the feel, the _stench_ of the place was driving me insane. I insisted to Ripper he get me out, responding only with 'personal reasons' when he asked me why. Maybe it was the tone of my voice, or maybe he simply…understood, but within the hour, against the doctors' better judgment, I was being escorted out of the front door by Ripper's bodyguards.

Weeks later, I'm still here. The hospital staff recommended a nurse be hired out top keep an eye on me once I was at 'home', so that's what he did. Once he left for work, or whatever it is that crooks do, I took out this diary and read through it. I didn't write, though. I…couldn't. I didn't want to. I don't know what spurred me to write today, but I have.

I don't know what I'm doing here. I…don't know where I'm going from here. I have a roof over my head, and protection, but at the same time, I'm scared. If Ripper or any of his buddies find this, I'm dead. The details will give them enough of a reason to kill me. They'll know who I am and what I'm really up to. It'd be wise to destroy these incriminating pages, but would also be like tearing a part of me away. I'd rather risk it and keep the nostalgic sentiment.

Speaking of nostalgia, I read the paper the yesterday. There's been a big case going on while I've been recovering; a woman called Alice Marsh was found dead in a park near where I used to live. She was hacked and cut so badly, they couldn't tell who she was at first. Her own family couldn't identify her. Dental records gave them her name. Put a picture up of her. Sweet looking girl, really. Long, dark hair and pale skin, though the black and white photo hides the true color, and very pretty. I feel like I know her from somewhere, but I can't place the face.

I'm sure I'll remember eventually.

* * *

_Author's Notes: The scope of this story will be widened next chapter. Also, this takes a while to write, because of college commitments and because the chapters are fairly large. I'm not a fan of large chapters, but I didn't want to split this up. Finally, for those who watched only the film, this story will be based heavily around the graphic novel, and avid Watchmen fans who have read it may notice some references to the novel throughout my titles, and events hinted at, such as Underboss and King of Skin._

_All dates have been taken directly from the book, involving canon events, but if anyone sees a content error, please let me know and I'll look it over. Finally, as this is a diary entry, I made all of the spelling American. I am British, so if there is a Brit spelling instead of an American one, inform me._

_Edit: I'm a fucking idiot. I had an extra letter in my title._

_Edit Again: This chapter has been split into two, forming the prologue, as advised by Lord Kelvin. There have also been minor edits to some phrasing and thoughts of the character, as well as certain sections being removed or changed completely. Thanks, Lord Kelvin!  
_


	3. Never Surrender

…_hacked and cut so badly…own family couldn't identify…dental records gave name…put a picture up of her…sweet looking…long, dark hair pale skin I feel like_

_I feel like I know_

_I know;__** I know**_

_I feel like I know her from_

_I feel...know her from some…but_

…_place…_

_Hacked and cut so badly…place the…own family couldn't identify…place…hacked…couldn't identify…pla—_

I feel like I know her from somewhere, but I can't place the face.

I'm sure I'll remember eventually.

* * *

**Never Surrender**

_In the forests_

_Of the night,_

**January 29, 1978**

At times, humanity disgusts me. I picked up the paper this morning to read about a man called 'Richard Chase'; arrested yesterday for murdering a woman and her two sons. He cannibalized the mother and performed sickening acts upon her dead body. Then he took home the young child – two years old – and consumed his blood and organs. Just reading the article brought tears to my eyes and put me off my food.

There's a moral compass within all of us; of that, I am certain. Always thought I knew where I was in life: the lowest of low, but at least on the path of good and righteousness. People like Chase…they're the other end of the spectrum – they are the obvious evil of this world, foul and twisted.

Lately, though, it's become confusing. To be good, mustn't one save lives, not end them? To be good, one must bring justice on those who deserve it and not let the evils in the world go unpunished. This, however, is where I become perplexed. The lines blur; white and black mix to shades of gray and it becomes impossible to distinguish wrong from right. Chase himself has a black heart and no doubt he'll be given the death sentence. However, is it right to kill a killer? Do we become corrupted by ending the life of a child murderer?

My perception of Rorschach has become tainted with the ashen color; the faith I once had in him wavers slightly. To kill a person, in my view, belongs in black, whereas to save one is in white. His mask represents this, I am sure of it. However, if that was the case, why do the colors in the mask never mix to gray? How can he be a person of such high morality and yet kill people to exact justice? I don't want to see sense in such a terrible contradiction of nature and yet the more I think of it, the more understandable his motives become.

Evil must be destroyed by any means possible, lest it infect others and do damage to us all. I wish Chase had lived in this city, even if it put me in danger. That way, Rorschach would have been the one to catch him.

He would have exerted justice.

Unfortunately for me, I am nowhere near as efficient as the vigilante in the ways of justice. I can't deliver justice on the thugs I spend my time with until I know who Rorschach is. Since my last entry, I have been working tirelessly to uncover his past and possibly his identity…and yet there has been nothing. Despite my efforts, despite helping Ripper with some of his schemes, despite _everything, _all that that's available is weak ties to his past deeds and little else.

Not that my burrowing hasn't uncovered goldmines in other areas. I still live with Ripper in his penthouse because he insisted instead of letting me go back onto the streets. Fond of my company, apparently, and I must admit, I do enjoy his. I've been teaching him how to speak properly, to help his new business-like image. At first he was pissed every time his grammar was corrected or he was informed he was dropping letters when he spoke, but eventually he made an effort. At the moment, Richard has a strange hybrid of slang mixed with proper pronunciation, which I tease him for endlessly.

In return for helping him, he showed me how to shoot a gun. I initially wasn't keen to use a weapon, but Ripper pointed out that in his world, it's kill or be killed. If thugs knew Ms Jude could protect herself, they'd be less likely to take a pop at her, probably. Or maybe not. I dunno; I don't really care because I won't be shooting anyone in a hurry, and yet…well, the feel of the firearm in my hand, heavy and weighing me down gives me a sense of _power_. The appeal for carrying a gun is clear to me now.

It says 'don't fuck with me.'

Right now, I hold so much over the underworld, I could wipe a majority of them out with one visit to the right people. When it comes to the subject of Rorschach, New York's scum are _so_ willing to spill their little hearts to me – and not just about the mask, but also what operations they were involved in at the time. Add a few whiskeys to the equation, and all their future operations go straight onto tape – child's play. It's laughable, really, and incredibly dangerous. With all this influence, I'm slowly giving gangs a reason to silence me. I need to be careful, or instead of painting a picture of Rorschach for myself, I'll be painting a target on my back instead.

This diary has to remain hidden and unknown at all costs; Ripper isn't aware that it exists, despite me sharing a place with him for months now. It's hidden in a new location every week – areas Ripper wouldn't think of looking. Loose floorboards and removable ceiling and wall panels have proven to be excellent storage spaces so far.

Hopefully I'll find a job soon and have enough money to convince Ripper I can support myself and live alone. One thing worries me, though: will it be safe without his protection? Bodyguards stand at the doors and apartment complex entrance, all armed. They are the muscle I could never afford and as I rarely leave the penthouse these days…well, perhaps _they_ are the sole reason I'm still alive to write this. I know too much; more than most crime lords do and if what I'm planning succeeds…I'll be enemy number one with these people.

It's a risk I have to take. I'll be in greater danger if Ripper discovers the diary. I need to leave here as soon as I can, consequences be damned. And yet it is so comfortable here with him….

I need to stop this; stop luring myself into a false sense of security while in a den of lions. Nowhere is safe. Got to go.

Job interview today. Nervous as hell, but if I get it, I'll have a home once again. It's with the Nova Express, actually, a paper I once hated…but it's better than nothing. From what I've gathered, these people hate Rorschach, which will at least add to my story of trying to get rid of the mask.

There's one thing I've realized since moving away from my old home: I'm still trapped in a loathsome lifestyle. First I was struggling to make ends meet, hounded by Gracie and her girls, but still able to walk as a faceless person in the crowds…now my life consists of luxury but restricted to one apartment for fear of being gunned down in the street. Maybe I just complain too much. I need to be more grateful for what's happened really…

Who am I kidding?

Fuck it. I'm going for a walk. Get to my interview early without a damn armed escort.

Took a detour on the way home from my interview. Stupid and dangerous, I know, but it gave me some time to clear my head…and, well, I wanted to see Gracie's place again.

I was absolutely stunned when I got there. The whole place is completely abandoned; the windows and doors were all boarded up, and the whole place looked like an empty shell, dead and rotting. I couldn't figure out how it had changed so much since I had left – Gracie had been running a sound little business with willing 'employees.' Hardly any of them had resisted like me and none of them would have had the balls to tell. Gracie had her contacts and we all knew it.

Still, curiosity got the better of me, and I went around the back to see if I could force my way in without being seen. The wood hadn't really been nailed on properly, so it wasn't too difficult to wrench off. It occurred to me that if 'weakling Rachel' could handle it, then others would have, too. There could have been drugged up bums inside, for all I knew, and yet…

So I went inside, just slightly wary at the thought of a homeless guy shanking me with an old, dirty knife, and then reeled at the stench. It smelled of damp and decay, the moss coated carpet spongy beneath my feet. I squinted into the murky darkness and then continued on, looking out for any squatters lurking in corridors. It surprised me how much it had deteriorated since my last stay; there was water damage everywhere, scorch marks as if someone had deliberately set rooms on fire, graffiti, and broken furniture strewn everywhere. That seemed strange to me. Why was the furniture there to begin with? If they'd done a runner, all of them, surely they'd take their belongings with them? Unless something had scared them off, of course…

I visited my room. It was the only one that was virtually untouched. Rooting around unearthed old bills, disintegrating from the rain that fell through the leaking roof. Wrinkled my nose at them with an air of disgust. I never did pay those bills and I often wondered what had happened after I 'disappeared.' Don't care, now that I reflect upon it. I'm sure Gracie managed to leech off someone else before she was arrested.

Yeah, arrested.

After searching my room for nostalgic trinkets (found none), I left, not wanting to stay in my old prison much longer. Only the second I stepped out into the back alley, a man grabbed me and threw me against a metal fence. Recognized him as one of Ripper's men and relaxed. He wouldn't hurt me.

The second he realized who I was, he let go of me and stammered apologies. I waved them away, asking why he was even here and why in the hell he was guarding the place. His answer was disturbing.

"Protecting it, Miss Jude," he replied sheepishly. "The Boss took it off her and he's makin' sure no bitch gets it back. Mess with his assets and shit happens."

I froze, realization dawning on me.

"Ripper…instigated this?" I asked. The man stared at me dumbly.

"Insta-wha'?" he replied in his irksome slack-jawed manner. I held back a sigh and tried again.

"He…did all of this? Made the place deserted?"

"Yeah. Had some classy whore killed and blamed it on the woman that owned this place. Had her set up; planted evidence and everythin'. She got life and the others for assisted murder. The way I see it…"

I'd stopped listening. A familiar newspaper face burned into my vision; black and white. When I shut my eyes to block out her features, she simply became more prominent in the darkness of my own mind. Thoughts and memories intertwined, causing me to clasp my hands to my head.

_place the face_

"Crystal!" I gasped. The thug looked at me for a moment, clearly annoyed he had been interrupted. Then his expression brightened.

"Yeah! That's the name! How did you-?"

I shoved past him, not wanting to listen to any more and ran home trying to hold back tears. I sit here now on the floor at the foot of my bed. I am alone. I've always been alone.

Crystal is dead; Gracie has been arrested for a crime she did not commit; the women who sold themselves to Gracie to drag themselves out of poverty…condemned. I feel no pity to Gracie's fate; she would have killed me herself had Ripper not gotten me to the hospital in time. Her life sentence is fitting. But as for the others that fell under her influence…I am sickened. Had it not been for me, these women would still have a chance at life.

I'm looking at what I've just written. I am confused.

'A chance at life.'

Prostitution simply to eat. What life is that? It wasn't one that I wanted. I nearly died to escape such an outcome. Perhaps my actions gave them a release from a bleak existence. Crystal knows peace and those girls…when they finally get out of jail, they have a fresh start. As for Gracie…

No. This is all wrong. I can't think; can barely feel. Need to sleep. Need—

Someone is coming.

**January 30, 1978**

Self-loathing is a terrible thing. Mixed with the need for another and the joy of being loved, it is near unbearable. I lie here now in Ripper's bed, the sheets tangled around my naked body, clutching this diary to my chest, only lifting it away to write. Sweat smudges the ink on the pages leaving black smears on my skin. The musky scent of Ripper lingers within the crumpled material my form is wrapped in. I feel intoxicated by it.

Ripper. I suppose I call him Richard now. He hates his old name.

I'd barely had enough time to put the journal under the floorboards before he walked into my room. Perhaps he saw my paled face streaked with tears in the dim light, or maybe he noticed how I flinched as he approached, but he asked if I was alright.

Trying to explain to someone you know their dirty secrets without losing control is one of the hardest things I have ever done. I didn't manage it.

It started with a whisper, my voice so quiet he had to crouch down and lean towards me to catch what I was saying. Retelling my tale of discovery, I watched him grimace and look away from me. Clearly I was not supposed to find out. Stung by this realization, my mouth began to speak faster and louder of its own accord, the words tumbling from my lips rising in a hysterical crescendo until I was screaming at him. He tried to calm me down. I responded by throwing myself at him, hitting every inch of him I could reach.

We fell backwards with a crash, Rippe—Richard holding my arms as tightly as he dared to restrain me. He rolled so that he was on top of me, pinning me to the floor.

"Get the fuck off me!" I snarled, desperately trying to wriggle free despite the fact he was sitting on my legs. Rip—Richard said nothing, simply waiting until I fell silent before speaking.

"Are you done?" he asked. I nodded and he let go, crouching in front of me. Sitting up, paused, and then slapped him hard across the face, knocking him off balance so that he toppled to the floor. The fight in me was gone, however, and so I merely slouched against the wall watching him, drained. I half expected him to attack. Instead, he crawled over and sat opposite of me. There was a long silence.

"Do you know why I had her killed?" Richard said eventually. Nodding, I glared at him.

"To protect your _'assets.'_" My voice was filled with venom. Rippe—Richard looked wounded.

"No. That's not why at all."

"Then why? Sure, I had the shit beaten out of me, but you didn't need to kill the poor girl."

Richard shifted closer and gingerly took my hands in his own. There was a great temptation to pull away from him, but frustratingly, he had caught my curiosity.

"I…" Richard shifted uncomfortably, squeezing my fingers slightly. "I've come to care for you…a great…a, uh, I…I…oh, fuck it."

The crime lord leaned forward suddenly and pressed his lips awkwardly against my own, taking me by surprise.

It escalated from there.

Richard left not long ago for 'business', as he put it. What does this make us? I don't think that way of him, but I know that I need him. I've been alone for too long and he provides me with the capability to feel human again.

I'll be free of this soon anyway. I just need to find more information.

**November 17, 1978**

Jesus. What have I gotten myself into? I don't know what to do and yet I keep wondering what Rorschach might be like in this situation. But it doesn't matter, does it? I'm not a mask, I'm not a killer, and I'm not as strong as he is. I can't surrender to Richard's wishes, but if I don't, everything I worked for will be ruined. I _have_ to keep this façade up; I'm doing it for good – to help Rorschach eradicate the scum of this city.

God, I'm such a joke.

Think, think, think, Rachel! Black and white, but never gray. I have to do the unthinkable to bring justice. I need to dip into black to give white. Would that produce gray? I don't think so. The white would smother the black; eradicate it. Plus, it's for the greater good, isn't it? By doing this, I protect myself, which means the research can continue and Rorschach can bring swift retribution upon them all.

Why does that fill my heart with guilt? These people are evil, Richard included. I have to turn him in when the opportunity presents itself. I may be fond of him, but I don't love him.

The cries of the man from the next room are barely audible over the idle chatter of the gang. Jacob Jeffrey. Police officer. He's been tracking the gang for months, trying to pin down those who were blackmailing him. He discovered my role in it and intended to spread the word, but not before Richard got his hands on him. Richard doubts me and it hurts like hell, even though he is justified. It's just that he doesn't know he is justified. He asked me to prove my loyalty to the gang once and for all, although he looked unwilling when he said it. It is more than likely the gang pushed for it.

I asked for some time by myself to think. Richard nodded and gave me a weapon, before directing me to a stock cupboard. Once inside, I immediately reached for the journal concealed on my person. I still sit here, scribbling away, trying to postpone the inevitable.

The gun is heavy in my lap. It is heavy on my soul, too. They weigh more than one would think, but appearances can be deceiving. It is in my hand now; the cold of the metal exterior makes me wince, for it triggers my awareness of the deadly, explosive core slumbering within the silent frame.

I have to do this. I have no choice. It's for the greater good and more lives will be saved this way.

As for Richard, it's…it's just too bad. Too bad, because I don't love him. I don't. I don't love him. I can't love him. I won't love him. It's not love, just need. Just need, just need, just need.

What sort of person could love a monster, anyway?

* * *

_Author's Notes: I am well aware I overuse the word 'I.' However, I'm freaking useless at thinking of alternative ways to write sentences without 'I.' If anyone can give tips or suggestions, please, let me know._


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